Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Untitled Poetry


The wind howls in from the south southwest,
    blowing dust and banging shutters.
Bouncing over the low sparse brush,
    tumbleweeds scurry by,
Hurrying to make it to the river by dusk.


The raging wind batters
With the fury of Mongol forces
Sweeping across the desert
The clumps of tall, stiff grasses
Unable to run before the enemy
Bend deeply
Groveling like peasants
Refusing to break
Willing themselves to survive until
The soldiers have marched through
And their tall, quiet serenity will be returned

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